


so much effort, making meaning

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling, Dialogue, Fighting, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 16:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6292540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fear turns to anger turns to softness.<br/>bends but breaks, too, because there's a crack in the polished smoothness of the glass.</p><p>alex keeps jonesing for fights; john knows the feeling.</p><p>it's t for referenced subject matter and for swearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so much effort, making meaning

**Author's Note:**

> this is funny, because i started out writing porn - even halfway through i was going for porn - and it became this. enjoy.
> 
> have fun with the album cover for [the song this story's title is from](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEYo2Px-DjI), it's fitting
> 
> the work itself was inspired by [one of the most important songs from my teenage-hood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gj5kDgOHTRY); it's a love song, but i don't think of it as a romantic song.
> 
> _and maybe ours is the cause of all mankind:_  
>  _get loved, make more._  
>  _try to stay alive._

Alexander is the very concept of self-destruction given a corporeal form.

And that’d be great, but John doesn’t know where he goes with that information. Like, the realization had hit him full-force earlier in the week, cleaning Hamilton’s split, still-snarling lip with a wet Kleenex. But it had been a full stop; there was no lightbulb in the revelation, just the sudden unease of being able to put into words what’s bothering you. No solution in sight, only the temporary - bandages for the cuts, ice for the bruising. Alexander fights more than Laurens did in college, and he fights dirty with his knuckles and nails and John knows because there’s been more than one occasion on which he’d begged him not to go out and offered himself up as a punching bag, and usually Alexander looks at him like he’s crazy and slams the door in his face but one or two times he’s driven his fist into his gut and dropped John more efficiently than any other hit of his life had.

Hamilton bores of that easily, of course. The fact that John doesn’t fight back doesn’t suit him at all. He wants the pain, too, the adrenaline rush.

“What are you so afraid of?” Hamilton says now, perched on the bathroom counter with his eyes like ice daggering through John’s own. John starts, presses a little too hard at the bruise on Alex’s cheek. The hiss that echoes off the mirror is John’s own, not Alexander’s. Alexander grins, dark, and Laurens is suddenly _pissed_ , has to really catch his own eye in the mirror and tell himself to calm down.

He is afraid that he’s in over his head. He is afraid because it has become clear that he can’t pretend this isn’t happening, can’t wish it away. He is afraid that one of these days Alex will go out looking for a fight and not only find one but find The one, and he’ll get a call from the cops saying _Hey a good samaritan found this guy with your number as his emergency dial bleeding out on the sidewalk in front of some seedy biker dive._ And he’s fucking mad about it, because Hamilton doesn’t take it seriously, he’s smirking at him and calmly expecting an answer and John has to mother him and he hates playing house.

“We're not talking about this,” he says.

Alexander sneers. “Pretty sure it's too late for that.”

John throws the washcloth in the sink with a splat. “You know, when you get like this, you're almost unlikeable. I almost forget why you're my best friend.”

Alexander's eyes are dark. He's still grinning, goddammit, challenging John. “When I get like _what,_ John?” He enunciates the _t_ so sharply.

John grips his shoulder trying to steady himself to the counter through Alexander but his fingers dig in roughly and Alexander makes a little sound in his throat, a growl but almost a whine, and John presses harder, staring at his white knuckles until he realizes Alexander is panting for breath and releases his grip, shoves a little at Alex’s shoulder so he’s off-balance on the vanity. “Like this,” he says sadly, and leaves. He walks out. Gives himself some distance for both their sakes. Grabs his coat and is out the door before Alex can even scurry into the hall.

The night is clear and carries the scent you get just after a rainstorm. It's good thinking weather, and John wishes he'd brought his notebook, but it's about midnight and journaling in the park at this hour is likely to get you killed. He walks a couple miles and finds himself back in front of their building. His hair is breeze-blown and his skin is chilled. His mind feels sharper. He’s awake enough to go back in, figure it out.

When he opens the door Alex is huddled with his knees to his chest on the sofa, bowl of sugary cereal in his hand, TV tuned to a shitty Syfy movie. There’s a second, empty bowl on the coffee table, along with the Lucky Charms box and half-gallon of milk, and John thinks _oh yeah, reasons you’re my best friend._ He sits, fixes his portion. Alex glances at him sideways.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking at him. He stares into his fake marshmallows instead.

“I know,” John says, settling back into the couch cushions.

“I just…” and John really doesn’t feel like talking but he knows they need to, so he makes a sound of acknowledgement. Alex continues. “I get all jumpy, on-edge, and I do this. I don’t even know where I learned the habit.”

John scoffs. Alex inclines his head, looks at him. “What?”

“Do you remember when we met?”

Alex grins, a bright, toothy grin, so unlike what he’s seen lately. It makes John’s heart swell. “You passed me a note in class. Told me Aaron was bad news after you saw me hanging out with him.”

John smiles at the memory, how he hadn’t been wrong, but continues. “I mean less the how and more the when. You had just moved here, right? So, senior year?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. I was doing a lot of this thing you’re doing, back then. Lots of pent-up angst, from my family and my own headcase shit and that summer, you know how I moved out, got that awful apartment waaaaay out in south Brooklyn? I thought it’d be perfect but it wasn’t. My roommate was an asshole and I was too far away from you guys to see you all the time and I was lonely and fidgety and I went out looking for people to hurt me. So,” and he notes the way Alex is looking at him, like _yeah I know, I always knew, because I’m brilliant and read you easier than you could ever imagine,_ but he continues anyway, “you probably learned it from me.”

Alexander clicks his tongue. “I won’t blame you, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

John shakes his head, sighs. He’s a little bit right. He wants someone to have the blame and it isn’t Alex.

They sit for a minute. John lets one of the clover-shaped sugar cubes melt on his tongue before he speaks. “I’m sorry, too. For not like… getting ahead of this sooner. For being afraid of it. It does scare me, you know.” He rushes it out when it looks like Alex is about to respond. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t just force himself to say it, he never will. He feels like they both need the admission, voiced, out in the open. “I don’t know. Maybe you and I are too alike. You’re just… really important to me, Alex. I freak out when you go out at night, I sit here and I worry. Do you know how that feels?”

Alex shakes his head. He’s biting his lip, looking down. “Not really.” And he says it slowly, like he’s really trying to consider whether or not he does. “I hadn’t realized. I don’t think. I just… kind of go.”

John huffs out a laugh. “That’s sort of your life story.”

“True.” Alexander smiles coyly, looking a little guilty. Like he’s testing the waters. He sighs, sets his bowl down on the table in front of him. “I don’t know how to fix it, John.”

And John knows the words will sting but he has to land them precisely anyway. Nothing minced or mangled. “You could start by getting help.” And at Alexander’s look of reproach, he just goes on. “Real help. Professional. I’m in med school, Alex, I can find you someone. All you have to do is say the word.”

Alex is already shaking his head halfway through. “I’m not… like that.”

“That doesn’t mean a goddamn thing and you know it.”

“No, John, I mean, I know I’m fucking crazy, but I don’t do well in structure like that. I don’t do the cry it out on the couch thing.”

“That also doesn’t mean anything, and it also goes to show that you’ve never given therapy a chance. That isn’t how it is at all.”

“How would you know?”

John sighs, throws the hand with his spoon up in the air. For someone so perceptive, Alex is blind as a bat in broad daylight. “You know my standing Tuesday night meeting?”

Alex looks into him, his eyes narrow so sharply. And then they widen, huge, as if it’s the most unimaginable revelation. John just goes on. “How do you think I got over my own phase? It still itches at me, Alexander.” He swallows at the unintentional use of his full name. He tries not to use it when he’s lecturing him. Hates playing Mom. “I still get the urge to hurt myself, too, even when I realize I can’t have other people hurt me. But I have tools now. Things that actually work for me, stuff I can do to get the itch to pass. Structure,” he says, and he throws Alex a meaningful look, “can be a good thing.”

Alex chews on it. His marshmallows are turning the milk in his bowl on the table yellow-green as the food dye leaks from them. “I don’t know, I mean.” And he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, and they both know it. He’s quiet, instead; rare for Alex to realize he doesn’t actually have anything to say, but when he does, he’s profoundly silent. John puts his own cereal bowl on the end table and curls his knees under him.

“Come here,” he tells Alex, who leans into him immediately, sighing as his head hits John’s side. “We’ll deal with more of it tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Tuesday. It’s a group, nice people, they don’t judge. I think it’s less threatening, but it might not work for you. I swear to God, Alex, we’ll find something that works for you. Something besides this.” Alex adjusts lower in his seat, and John wraps his arm around him, pulling him closer. Getting comfy, he says, “We should sleep at some point.”

Alexander scoffs. “Oh, I am _so_ calling out tomorrow.” He nods at the television. “ _Dinocroc vs. Supergator._ Washington will understand the importance.”

John laughs and rests his head on Alex’s. He realizes he’d showered in the time he was gone; his hair is slick, and his skin smells of soap and warmth. He falls asleep almost immediately, and John is just behind him, lingering in the glow of the idiot box. Onscreen, a character blinds the Supergator with a bullet and is promptly, unceremoniously eaten, and as he passes out John has a madman’s metaphor swimming in the sleepy haze in his head.


End file.
